You lie dying
by Gargoyle13
Summary: Lancelot's final regret.


_**Author's Note: This inspired by the song 'Hospital' by Nephew. Co-constructed with Ysolde (you are the best) and from the same conversation as "One should have said something".**_

_**Italics indicate thoughts.**_

The horses danced with the sound of the drums. They knew what was about to take place behind them, and they were not comfortable walking away. Just like their riders. Almost all the riders, that is. Lancelot reined his horse in hard, trying to calm the dark steed by pulling it out of line and softly whispering calming words. Running his hand down its neck, he felt the sweat beading there and realized grimly that he too was perspiring. The rush of impending battle was beginning to overtake him as well as his steed. He looked up from trying to control his mount to see that his brothers were having similar difficulties of their own. He had served with them too many years not to recognize the signs within each knight. Then there was Tristran, already off his horse and retrieving his bow from the wagon. _Damn him to all the depths of that Hell that Arthur was always warning them about. _It was as if he was looking forward to this fight. _Like he had been hoping we'd all turn around and go back so he wouldn't be there with Arthur alone. Damn scout._

We suit up in silence, helping each other when necessary, but otherwise everyone is uncharacteristically silent. Even Gawain and Galahad are holding their tongues. It is as though we all sense the tremendous odds against us and wondering if we will once again snatch victory from the edge of defeat. And if so, what will the cost be? These are even worse than our odds on that blasted ice. _No, no, no…don't think about the ice…don't think about her…about Dag…about riding back with his body…digging the grave…watching Bors fall apart…no, damnit, Lancelot, stop thinking…because you will get to this morning and…_ He cast a glance at Tristran and saw that he was not paying him any mind, simply finishing up preparations for battle just as he needed to be doing. _I will square up later_, Lancelot promised himself, not knowing that three horses away, Tristran was silently promising the same.

He had been agitated since last night, seeing the Saxons camped outside the wall, hearing Arthur say he would stay and his dismissal of the Knights. It had all been too much for Lancelot to take. There had been no sleep, no rest for him last night and he suspected that it had been much the same for the others. Now they rode back up the hill, back to Arthur, back to their destinies.

As Arthur is explaining how things will unfold, what the Woads will do, what we will do, Lancelot is only half-listening. _There are many Saxons out there waiting to spill our blood, to saturate the ground with it, _is the only thought he can hear. The frenzy within is building, as it is in the other Knights and Arthur. One should have said something earlier. There is no time now. Tristran has fired off the first arrow; an invitation to the Saxon horde to come into the fort and take their chances with what lies within. When the gates open to let in the group that the Saxons send forward, the battle will be on and hopefully the end will see all of us victorious.

The frenzy keeps building, focusing us on what is to come. Battle rush, as Gawain has been heard to call it. Men and steed feel it, coursing through their blood, laying good souls to the side and brining forth the screaming killers within.

On horseback, we attack first. Catching them off-guard and vulnerable and the first group comes through the gates. _This will not last. We are going to be outnumbered very soon. _

The Saxon horde en masse comes through the gates. _Gods, there are so many of them and so few of us…even with the Woads_, Lancelot finds himself talking to gods of whose existence he has been, until now, skeptical at best. _Let us all make it through the day._

Without warning and without premise, the battle is on and it is every warrior for himself. Not because it is what they would choose, but because it is the only way. Lancelot notes that Tristran moves to the eastern portion of the field, leaving horseback and unsheathing his sword. Lancelot tries to focus on the battle, but finds his mind drifting back to the unsettling run-in earlier in the day. Words and phrases kept replaying in his mind: _arrogant; conceited; cocky; envious of my position as second-in-command; dissatisfied; tortured brother; gifted brother; we do what we must…_and, finally, the one word that had frozen Tristran momentarily before sending him stalking off, parting them in anger:_ thief. Stop it, _he screamed at himself silently, _stop it and concentrate you fool! This is battle, not practice. _The frenzy within was now at fever pitch, but Lancelot's demeanor never betrayed this. In fact, if anything, he became more detached as the battle raged on. Until he saw it. Cynric…son of the Saxon leader (_and an ugly son of a bitch_, Lancelot added silently) facing off with Guinevere. _She will not take him. _With that thought, Lancelot raced across the field, taking down whoever stepped in his path. He could hear the sounds of his brothers on the field – he only hoped they were sounds of victory than of death. Reaching Guinevere, he squared off with Cynric, only to have his mind, his frenzy betray him one last time. _Thief_, it whispered and for a moment, he was transported back to this morning, back to the barracks, back to facing off with Tristran and watching as the word struck him. The scout's countenance changed, he seemed to grow even colder and more distant than his usual self. Lancelot had been initially smug, but those feelings had turned to sadness and then to regret when they rode back to join up with Arthur and he realized they would be riding into battle before apologies could be made.

With a sudden jerk, Lancelot realized he had paid dearly for the momentary lapse of focus. The arrow had sunk deeply into his chest. He would not go down without a fight though. He stuck his sword into Cynric and twisted, driving the blade as deep as possible. He felt himself falling backward, being caught by thin arms and placed on the ground. A voice, not in his ears, but in his soul. Not her voice…not even Arthur's voice. No, it was the voice of the scout, across the battle field, from the eastern wing of the attack. Dying, just as he was. _Tristran…no! I never got to say…I never got to say…_


End file.
